


why have nicotine when you can have john watson?

by kimsvngkyus



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Pining, Pining John, sherlock acts like a hoe and gets shit for it
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-12-18
Updated: 2016-12-18
Packaged: 2018-09-09 12:01:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,731
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8890060
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kimsvngkyus/pseuds/kimsvngkyus
Summary: Sherlock's mind is muggy, his head has started to hurt, beating out the rhythm of John-Irene-John-Irene-Leaving against his skull. Sherlock frowns, John’s mouth is moving, but he can’t understand anything. Panic rises sharply like bile at the back of his throat as Sherlock watches John pull the door open, pausing on the threshold before shaking his head gently and shutting the door with a quiet click on the way out.Sherlock’s mind chooses only to register the fact that John is leaving, John is leaving, and John is leaving! After he’s left, Sherlock scrambles onto his feet, knocking into the coffee table as he falls to his knees in front of the door, curls hanging limply as Sherlock struggles to drag air into his protesting lungs.





	

**Author's Note:**

> hey ! my third sherlock fic, i hope you guys enjoy it !
> 
> un-betaed so all mistakes are mine ! if anyone is interested in helping me beta my next few fics ( trust me i have about 8 fics getting mouldy in my laptop ) check out the notes at the end of this fic ! 
> 
> kudos & comments make my day , thank you for reading !

Sherlock was pacing. Again, and by  _ again  _ John meant “it is 10am and this is the  _ third  _ time Sherlock has been pacing and I  _ haven’t even finished my morning tea goddamnit. _ ” Or simply speaking, John was tired and he could not,  _ would not  _ deal with a jittery Sherlock at 10am on a Tuesday. He just  _ wouldn’t. _

 

They’d returned home late last night. After chasing a crazed killer that had some sort of creepy obsession with noses, (he cut them off his victims, and of course every British was able to appreciate a few “ _ oh it's voldemort!” _ jokes but the rate Lestrade was making them had made Sherlock threaten to cut off  _ his  _ nose. John laughed, the sight of a semi-pouty, half-I-want-to-put-you-down-and-maybe-me-too-god-you’re-stupid Sherlock making his chest tighten, heart twinging alarmingly). The killer had jumped into a lake, so Sherlock had jumped into the lake, and because Sherlock jumped into the lake, John had jumped into the lake. 

 

They’d pulled themselves out of the lake half an hour later, Sherlock holding the killer by his collar and John’s favourite jumper sopping wet. Sherlock had turned to him, all dark hair and pale cheeks and normally curly hair plastered against his forehead, looking extraordinarily young - and said, “John- “

 

John’s heart thudded firmly against his breastbone, and he was painfully aware of how hopeful his expression was, bracing himself for Sherlock’s next words. 

 

“Your hair is sticking up.” 

 

John slumped abruptly into the shore, energy rapidly draining out of him. He was  _ tired.  _

 

-

 

Sherlock still hadn’t stopped pacing. It was 11am. John had gone through three mugs of tea, two scones, and six newspapers. He didn’t think Sherlock was going to stop pacing anytime soon.

 

“John, murder someone!”

 

“Sherlock, no.”

 

“Then rob a bank.”

 

“No.”

 

“Won’t you do it, for me?” Sherlock turned to John, still clad in his pajamas, verdigris eyes wide, hair unruly and wild, curling deliciously over the line of his brow, looking both deviously innocent and yet remarkably endearing to John’s poor overworked heart. Taking a deep breath, John leaned back against the hard wood of the kitchen chair, John knew would probably do anything for Sherlock if he so much as asked. As Sherlock was complaining about his sore lack of cases, he had moved from the couch in the living room to crouch down by John’s chair, peering up expectantly from under inky lashes, stark against Sherlock’s pale complexion. John took one look at Sherlock, shuddered at how  _ fucking beautiful _ Sherlock was, covered his eyes with his forearm, and groaned. 

 

His hands twitched uneasily, wanting to thread his fingers through Sherlock’s curls, massaging and soothing and tugging, but John settled for looking down at his hands that he knew were ugly and scarred and calloused from years in Afghanistan, subconsciously tracing a scar along his palm.

 

“Sherlock,”

 

“Yes?”

 

“I would like to give you a gentle reminder that I am not here for your entertainment,”

 

Sherlock’s eyes trailed over John’s body, still held stiffly against the kitchen chair, and it took all of John’s practiced army control to not shudder under the intensity of Sherlock’s gaze. Sherlock’s eyes snapped up from their path across John’s chest and locked onto his eyes. John startled slightly, but he looked back warily, blue eyes soft and warm. Sherlock held John’s stare for what seemed like an eternity, pulling away just as John’s trembling hand was about to descend into the mystery that he had dubbed ‘Sherlock’s Murky Curls’. John knew though, Sherlock’s hair was anything  _ but  _ murky. They were soft and messy (adorably so) and the darkest of blacks, and they never stopped calling to John.  _ Oh what he would give! _ John would give someone a hundred- no, as much as they wanted just to be able to card his fingers through Sherlock’s hair, to smooth back his curls and take his face into his hands and - 

 

John knew he probably never would.

 

-

 

It was 1pm, and Sherlock was looking for his nicotine patches.

 

“JOHN, I NEED IT”

 

Sherlock was a blur of movement in the living room, forget putting bullets in walls, Sherlock was positively tearing the walls down! Currently, Sherlock was rummaging under the sofa, the only thing visible from where John was, sat by the table, was his arse (and it was a mighty fine one at that) and his legs (that were flailing dramatically no doubt in an attempt to get John off his arse and  _ help. _

 

John smiled, soft and sad and heartbreakingly so, before getting up and pulling Sherlock out from under the sofa, by his ankles, gently. 

 

Sherlock flipped onto his back, face a cross between a whimper and that half insane state that John had gotten used to. 

 

“John-”, Sherlock whined, a smudge of dirt across his cheeks, John could probably cut his hand on those cheekbones, they were delightfully sharp. John sighed, Sherlock needed a case, and he needed it  _ now. _

 

-

 

John was a doctor, and he’d seen how great minds hand crumbled, collapsed all at once under addictions, and he swore,  _ swore on his goddamn life he did _ , that he would  _ never _ let anything like that happen to Sherlock. 

 

“Sherlock, look you should probably get some sleep-”

 

Sherlock twisted out of John’s hold, hands coming up to clasp like vices on John’s arms, before leaning down and hissing, “It has been ten hours and thirty seven minutes John, I  _ need _ a case.”

 

John remained standing, downcast eyes and stiff limbs, as the sound of Sherlock’s feverish words and things hitting the floor carried over to the living room. Sighing once, John trudged after Sherlock, because where Sherlock went, John did too.

 

Even if it was just in their flat.

 

-

 

John’s closet was strewn haphazardly across his room, sheets and duvet violently flung off the bed, and the bedside lamp is shards on the floor.

 

“Sherlock, what are you doing?” 

 

Sherlock ignored him in favour of pulling open another drawer, dumping its contents (John’s underwear- there was a leopard print one) onto the floor and sifting frantically through them.

 

“Sherlock!”

 

Sherlock barely looked up at John’s scandalised shout, choosing to wriggle under John’s bed. As if he’d keep Sherlock’s patches in such a place! They were nestled in the pages of John’s diary, sitting conspicuously astride his bedside table. 

 

_ The art of disguise is knowing how to hide in plain sight.  _ Sherlock had said, and John had remembered. John remembered everything that Sherlock said. He didn’t have Sherlock’s eidetic memory, nor did he have the ability to construct a mind palace, but whatever Sherlock said, he would always remember. After all, it's wasn’t like there was anything else he’d rather know. 

 

“Sherlock look, this isn’t helping maybe you just need to rest-”

 

“You don’t  _ understand!”  _ Sherlock hissed, whirling around, chest heaving and brow furrowed and expression anything but-

 

“you don’t know anything about me.”

 

John flinched. 

 

Sherlock didn’t notice though.

 

_ Wasn’t he supposed to notice everything? _

 

Sherlock continued, “all you do is sit at home with your  _ devastatingly useless mind _ ,” he smirked. John’s heart clenched. His throat closed-

 

“Did you actually think that you were a help to me?”

 

up.

 

-

 

John was stiff, swallowing thickly as he tried to ignore the painful clenching in his chest.

 

_ Ah. _

 

His leg was hurting again, a psychosomatic injury and a parting gift from the war. It was a long time since it hurt this bad. (It matched the pain in his heart)

 

Sherlock was still pulling open drawers, and scrubbing at his face, small hysterical sounds escaping his chest. Except his hands were shaking now, causing Sherlock to fumble, cursing violently, (Sherlock didn’t curse) 

 

This wasn’t the Sherlock he knew. Sherlock was put together and composed and had a mind brighter than the brightest star in the galaxy. What did he miss?

 

John inhaled shakily, bracing himself as he stretched out an arm, wanting to draw Sherlock away from this mess, and into the warmth of his arms. Yet, it wasn’t even the slightest brush of fingers that had caused Sherlock to scramble back, almost falling over trying to get away from John. Sherlock peered up at John, contempt gleaming in the silvery depths of his eyes, pupils dilated almost dangerously, curls wet, matted, and his arm trembling worryingly.

 

John was shocked, Sherlock had never- Sherlock didn’t-

 

John tipped his head backwards, swaying slightly on the heels of his feet as he tried to suppress the prickling beneath his eyelids. Sherlock had never, shied away from him. It was always “John my leg hurts from where I got shot” or “John will you massage my shoulders they ache because of the weird takeout you bought” ( “Sherlock, takeout doesn’t cause shoulder aches”, “Yes it does, you’re a doctor, you’re supposed to know.” )

 

“Sherlock, I- “ 

 

John faltered, mind devoid of words. Shuddering against the tumultuous rise and fall of emotion beating away inside his chest.

 

“I just wanted to help. Y-You, Sherlock I can help you-”

 

Sherlock scoffed, heartless contempt playing mercilessly across his face, “you,  _ help me _ ?”

 

His brash incredulity stung worse than any surface wound could, as if he’d stuck his hand inside John’s chest, taking his heart in his hands, and  _ squeezing. _

 

John attempted a weak smile. “Yeah, help. Like I always have.”

 

“Stop  _ deceiving  _ yourself,” Sherlock bit out, eyes slitted and trembling more violent than ever.

 

“No, Sherlock, I-”

 

“GET OUT JOHN”

 

“Sherlock, no-”

 

“Didn't you hear me? I said,  _ get out! _ ”

 

“Sherlock, I, I-I’m sorry, whatever I've done, we can fix it! I promise, it’s the two of us, we can do anything-”

 

“How  _ adorable _ ,” a harsh, grating laugh reverberating from deep inside his chest, Sherlock pressed his eyes closed, looking chillingly serene. 

 

“Now if you could do me a favour,  _ please get out _ .” Sherlock said, voice smooth, dripping sin, not bothering to open his eyes.

John steadies himself, eyes fluttering shut for the barest moment.

 

_ They never stopped hurting, did they? _

 

John recalls weeks on weeks of careless remarks, aimed straight at his heart. They hit it dead centre.  _ Every time.  _

 

John recalls layer upon layer of flippant disregard. Be it refusal to interact with him, or snide comments thrown his way.

 

John recalls nights and nights of sleeplessness. His body is exhausted from chases in alleyways and falling-overs and the familiar aches that tugged at his memories of Afghanistan. On those nights, his mind tripping over itself, whirlwind of thoughts and questions about the enigma that was Sherlock beating away at his brain. They kept him up. (Sherlock kept him up.)

 

John was  _ tired. _

 

John has always been pliant, malleable, susceptible to Sherlock’s effortless manipulation. The number of times John has found himself silent, clenching tightly against the hurt in his heart is immeasurable. He has been conditioned to take his pain and keep it, shoving it deep into the recesses of his mind. (He shelved it next to boxes labelled “Afghanistan” and “Harry”, after all, Sherlock was capable of inflicting as much, or even more pain, than he’d ever known.) He doesn’t know why he always lets Sherlock do this to him (he does), and he doesn’t know why he tolerates it (he does), and it's more than just leaving eyeballs on the counter or never cleaning up after himself. Its shrapnel sharp judgments that snag against his heart and unwanted mouthfuls of his sad, broken state that make him wish that he was back in Afghanistan where there were people and enemies and tangible things he could fight instead of this cold, upsetting dread that has made camp in his stomach. John is nothing more but a layer of skin stretched to breaking over a distressing amount of hurt and sorrow and he thinks maybe his heart hurts so much because his own ugly, broken pieces are being jostled and poking uncomfortable into himself and John wants rest, John wants a release, and John thinks and startles and he realises-

 

_ He wants to be angry. _

 

He’s so sick of feeling tired and hurt when he wants to give in to the burning deep within his chest. Sometimes he wants to scream, and scream and  _ scream,  _ but he never does because “ _ that's not John _ ” but sometimes he doesn’t want to be the John people know and he wants to tell them he’s  _ killed people _ , and he’s watched them  _ bleed  _ and he’s more used to steeling his heart than you could ever imagine. As his mind whirls, John can feel his rage building up, an uneasy pressure against his breastbone. 

 

“Of course, Mr I-always-work-alone-because-nobody-can-keep-up-with-my-massive-intellect, I should have known, shouldn’t I?” 

 

Sherlock’s eyes snapped open, glistening wetly and rimmed with red. John’s voice was pure soldier (Captain John Watson, Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers, Sherlock’s mind supplied), hard and unyielding. 

 

John’s eyes, usually a bright china blue, are now flinty, a steely shade of blue that spoke of hardships and determination. Now? Those eyes were full of anger, threatening to spill over at the slightest push.

 

Sherlock wasn’t used to this John, he didn’t see the problem.

 

“I don’t have friends John,” Sherlock laughed darkly, gaze filmy and disoriented, “not even one.”

 

It took all of three seconds for John to explode.

 

“Be that way Sherlock,  _ fucking be that way then! _ ” John reached for the nearest object (it was his favourite mug, pity) and flung it against the wall, breathing heavily. His mug exploded into pieces, shards stark against the dark wood floor. 

 

“You want me to leave? I’ll fucking leave all right. Let’s see how you survive without me when you can’t do  _ fucking anything _ by yourself!”

 

Sherlock’s pupils were blown wide, breath hitching in his throat at the sensory overload that was John.

 

“I don’t know what the fuck has gotten into you today Sherlock, but I know I don’t want to be part of any of it. Goodbye.”

 

John snatched his coat off the back of his chair, only pausing in an attempt to locate his mobile before seeming to decide his haste to desert Sherlock took precedence. 

 

As John’s hand descended on the brass doorknob of flat 221B in Baker Street, an orgasmic moan from within Sherlock’s coat pocket cut through the terse silence hanging over their house.

 

John’s back stiffened infinitesimally, flinty blue eyes skittering back to rest on Sherlock’s prone form. 

 

Sherlock swallowed audibly, drawing John’s attention to the pale expanse of his throat. 

 

John looked away, a resigned edge to the rigid set of broad shoulders. He never really got over the glaring insecurity he’d felt gnawing away at his chest after the few fateful encounters with Irene Adler.

 

She was, enigmatic, he would say. In control,  _ literally. _ Polished, varnished, a product of the highest value, revered by buyers alike.  _ Expensive. _

 

John was,  _ just John _ . A little frumpy at the edges, been dropped far too many times to come out of it unscathed. Good for practical use, sure, but who’d want boring, old John when they could have one Irene Adler please,  _ thank you _ .

 

Sherlock’s eyed tracked John’s movements.  _ Breathing 14.8 percent slower than usual, hunched shoulders- not from muscle aches, why? Favouring a leg slightly, supposed to be recovered, psychosomatic. Slight redness in eyes, they’ve been rubbed, frustration, unhappiness- slight pause before leaving, hesitance? Has he left something behind, doesn’t know whether to get it, oscillatin- _

 

“You’ve made your choice Sherlock. And now I’m making mine.” A pained expression crossed John’s face, he could never hide his emotions well, fingers twitching unconsciously. 

 

“It was good when it lasted.” John tries for a wry grin, Sherlock receives a barely concealed grimace instead. 

 

Sherlock mind is muggy, his head has started to hurt, beating out the rhythm of  _ John-Irene-John-Irene-Leaving  _ against his skull. Sherlock frowns, John’s mouth is moving, but he can’t understand anything. Panic rises sharply like bile at the back of his throat as Sherlock watched John pull the door open, pausing on the threshold before shaking his head gently and shutting the door with a quiet  _ click _ on the way out.

 

Sherlock’s mind chooses only to register the fact that John is leaving, John is  _ leaving, John is leaving!  _ After he’s left, as Sherlock scrambles onto his feet, knocking into the coffee table as he falls to his knees in front of the door, curls hanging limply as Sherlock struggles to drag air into his protesting lungs.

 

Pale fingertips ghost across the muted metal of their brass doorknob.

 

The metal is still warm.

 

_ Oh, John. _

  
-

**Author's Note:**

> okay so first ; if anyone is interested in helping me beta my fics, you can hit me up on tumblr [here](https://www.jchnhamishwatson.tumblr.com), my messaging & inbox are both open ! if any of you are interested in helping me beta my harry potter fics, you can hit me up [here](www.avadapotter.tumblr.com) !
> 
> next, please leave a kudo or a comment if you enjoyed this, comments make my day :") and thank you so much for reading !!


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